The longest day

Like most World War II vets, Dad never talked much about his wartime experience. There were cryptic references to mortal combat [Dad winning out, obviously, or we wouldn't be here to write this], and the occasional ribald tale or two of a sexually liberated, wartime London. [Really, the tales he shared with WWP, and only with WWP, his only son, make the 1960s pale in comparison--but we digress...] London was not far from where Dad served in a decoy operation that was intended to mislead the Third Reich into believing that Allied forces were far larger than they were and headed in a different direction than Normandy -- a mission that greatly succeeded in confounding the Luftwaffe and the Nazi machine.

Once the first waves of D-Day were over, Dad, like others, was rushed to France in the Allied race to liberate Paris. As we say, Dad never told many stories about the experience--wouldn't be prudent, you know, that sort of thing. But he loved to tell the one G-rated story, over and again, about leading his platoon into the French countryside where villagers and countrymen had fled, leaving home and livestock behind. As anyone who has grown up on a farm knows, one cannot leave the animals for long, especially the milk cows. As Dad liked to tell the story, he and his soldiers came upon abandoned cows, their udders full, braying in pain and for attention. Being a country boy, Dad knew exactly what to do, and sitting on his helmet, started milking a cow and commanding his mostly city slicker soldiers, most of whom had never been near a teat in their life, to do likewise. Most of the milk spilled onto the Norman soil, but some of it went into the G.I.'s helmets--the first real European treat most of them would experience.

Dad loved telling that story. And so we remember it today, 63 years after D-Day, the largest land-sea invasion in history, so famously described as "the beginning of the end." We pause to remember the 4,400 Allied souls lost on this "longest day," grieve the loss of all life in the conflict, and honor the service of those who liberated Europe.

Thanks, Dad.

Comments

[Frank Dufay]

My Dad talked about his war experiences all the time, sitting on the end of my bed, talking 'till I fell asleep.

His tales were about the Battle of the Bulge, but hero or not --and he has his Silver Star and Purple Heart medals still-- he helped me to appreciate the aburdity of it all, the buddy who stood up in the foxhole to pee...and got gutshot and died there, over the next few days, there with him.

Thanks, Dad. And to ALL the Dads. Especially the ones who never made it back to become Dads.

[ellie]

That is a great story - well told. Thank you for sharing it with us.